


Bootnecks

by abundantlyqueer



Series: Two Two One Bravo Baker Universe [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV), two two one bravo baker - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Military, M/M, Military, Military Fetish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-20
Updated: 2011-10-20
Packaged: 2017-10-24 19:18:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/266944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abundantlyqueer/pseuds/abundantlyqueer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Two Two One Bravo Baker prequel: John's history with Blackwood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bootnecks

_Southern Iraq, 2006_

The building once housed local government offices, a clinic, and an educational center; it’s a labyrinth of narrow hallways and small rooms. The interior walls are painted concrete, pocked with bullet holes and defaced with text ranging from the informative _40 Commando Echo Company this side_ to the sardonic _Do not leave gear in the hallways at night as valet service cannot be offered at this time_. The linoleum floor tiles are gritty with dirt and most of the doorways lack doors, though many are draped with camouflage cloth or bed sheets.

John is carrying his pack hefted high on one shoulder, with his assault rifle and helmet in his other hand. He brushes through a doorway hung with a blue and white striped sheet, into a small, high-ceilinged room with a single window. There’s a scattering of gear and clothing along the walls and two sleeping bags spread on the floor. George Blackwood, fully dressed except for the body armor and boots on the floor next to him, is lying on one of the sleeping bags. He’s turned on his left side, his knees drawn up slightly, his hands tucked into his armpits, and a khaki bandanna folded into a strip and tied over his eyes to negate the sunlight slanting through the undraped and glassless window.

John drops his pack against the wall, leans his rifle next to it, and sets his helmet on top. Blackwood rolls onto his back, hooking his thumb under his blindfold and slipping it up off his head. He looks John over, his gaze lingering on the rust-red stains spotting the sleeves and thighs of John’s camouflage clothing.

“You all right?” Blackwood asks.

John glances at him as he tears the tapes of his body armor apart and unclips the cord of his radio headset from his shoulder.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he says, lifting his armor off over his head and adding it to the pile of his gear.

Blackwood’s mouth sets in a straight line, the corners tucked tensely. John glances at him again and his expression flickers through irritation to softer acceptance.

“Bad day at the office,” he says, unfastening his pouch-belt and dropping it next to the rest of his things. “You know how it is.”

Blackwood sits up.

“Yeah. It’s the photocopying that does my head in,” he says, his mouth quirking crookedly.

John exhales a nasally sounded laugh as he tugs his cuffs open, parts the two sides of his shirt and bundles it off. He lifts the flap of one thigh pocket and extracts a packet of cigarettes. He flips the pack open, brings it to his mouth, and uses his slightly pursed lips to pluck out a cigarette. He closes the packet again and tosses it to Blackwood.

“Thanks,” Blackwood says.

John retrieves a battered steel lighter from his pocket, raps it against the heel of his hand and snaps the flint several times before it flames. He lights his cigarette, drawing hard and expelling a stream of smoke from the corner of his mouth before throwing the lighter to Blackwood. Blackwood lights his own cigarette, then tucks the lighter into the packet and tosses both back to John.

“Here, I’ve got the right thing for this,” Blackwood says.

He gets up, delves into his pack, and takes out an unopened fifth of Scotch which he hands to John.

“What is this?” John grins. “Are you my fairy godmother?”

“Yeah, so let’s drink it now before it turns back into bog water,” Blackwood says.

John twists the bottle cap off and takes a swig. He narrows his eyes and flicks his tongue over his lips, and then takes a second longer swig before passing the bottle back to Blackwood. While Blackwood drinks, John moves to where his sleeping bag is spread and sits down cross-legged. Blackwood sits facing him.

“You all right?” he asks again, giving John the bottle.

“Yeah,” John smirks as he lifts it to his mouth. “If you have a blow-job stashed somewhere I’ll have had a perfect day.”

Blackwood’s slight smile fades, replaced by something less readable.

“I - that was a figure of speech,” John says. “I wasn’t - ”

“I know you weren’t,” Blackwood says at once.

He looks down at the bottle in John’s hand. John holds it out; Blackwood takes it with a deliberate brush of his fingertips over John’s knuckles. John pulls on his cigarette, his shoulders flexing, and then squints in the flurry of smoke as he exhales. His eyes track the bottle as Blackwood lifts it to his lips, drinks, and brings it down to rest against his thigh.

“Forty-Two’s supposed to have a woman medic,” Blackwood says. “You could try her.”

“Some fella in Forty-Two’s probably saying we’ve got one,” John says with a lazy smile. “Women medics and the Loch Ness monster - everybody’s heard of them and nobody’s ever seen them.”

Blackwood offers the bottle again, but John shakes his head and holds out the cap instead. Blackwood plucks it from his fingers, closes the bottle, and tucks it under the edge of the sleeping bag. John leans back against the wall, unfolding one leg so his booted foot rests on the floor not far from Blackwood’s knee. Blackwood lifts his eyebrows slightly. John’s eyes move slowly from Blackwood’s knee to his crotch, and then up his chest to his face. Blackwood meets and holds his gaze steadily, but a faint flush of color comes up in his cheeks and his mouth seems undecided about what shape to assume. John takes a last pull on his cigarette and rubs it out on the floor.

“So what do you like?” he asks, his voice perfectly steady but his eyes flicking closed for a beat too long.

“Somebody who can act like a fucking adult about it,” Blackwood says.

“Okay,” John says, nodding slowly, “not a problem. Anything else?”

Blackwood bends his head slightly, half hiding his smile.

“Everything else,” he says, his eyes darting aside and then skittering back to John’s.

“Yeah?” John laughs softly.

“Pretty much,” Blackwood says.

John pulls his lower lip hard between his teeth.

“Come’ere,” he says, unfolding his other leg a bit.

Blackwood takes another quick draw on his cigarette and stubs it out. He shifts forwards, hooking one knee beneath John’s flexed thigh and bracing himself with a hand on the wall behind John, so that he’s leaning over him slightly. John tips his head up and back, his eyes tracing the clean precise curves of Blackwood’s features.

“You have really long eyelashes for a fella,” John says.

“Don’t fucking start with me,” Blackwood smirks.

John grins, takes hold of a handful of the front of Blackwood’s camouflage shirt and tugs gently. Blackwood yields, leaning forwards so that his chest presses against John’s, and then his mouth touches John’s lips.

The first contact is light and dry, each of them glancing into the other’s eyes in search of confirmation. John pushes his chin upwards and their open mouths fit together neatly. John’s free hand comes up to slip inside Blackwood’s shirt collar, while Blackwood’s broad hand slides along John’s jaw, fingertips caging around his ear and thumb pressing on the tip of his chin. John exhales nasally and pushes into harder into the kiss. His hand clenches on the fat roll of muscle at the base of Blackwood’s neck, and then skims forwards to his shirt buttons and tugs impatiently. Blackwood draws back and breaks the kiss, though John reflexively tries to recapture him with a little teeth-bared jerk of his chin.

“Let me take this off,” Blackwood says, pulling his shirt open.

John lets his head fall back against the wall, breathing heavily through parted, already flushed lips. Blackwood strips his shirt off and throws it aside. John’s gaze drops from Blackwood’s face to the thick curves of muscle shaping his shoulders and chest beneath his close-fitting tee shirt. John looks up again, his eyes darkened.

“Come here,” he says.

Blackwood moves forwards again, this time shifting his legs to one side slightly so that he’s lower in John’s lap, leaning against his chest with his face level to John’s. John splays his fingertips over the side of Blackwood’s face, his thumb smoothing outwards over the slight arch and point of one eyebrow. Blackwood’s eyelids flick down and then up again, the absurdly long curves of his eyelashes beating through the air. John thumbs inwards along one broad cheekbone, then down the side of Blackwood’s nose to the shadowed hollow at the corner of his mouth. John flicks his tongue wetly over his own lips and leans across the couple of inches separating his mouth from Blackwood’s. Blackwood is supporting himself with one hand, but his other hand curves around John’s shoulder, fingers biting through thin tee shirt into hard muscle.

“Fuck,” John says breathlessly, the word smeared between their mouths as Blackwood hitches his hips to bring his crotch against John’s thigh. “You’re hard.”

Blackwood drops his hand from John’s shoulder to between his legs, and spreads his palm over the firm bulge there.

“So are you,” he murmurs against John’s mouth.

John uses both hands to scrabble the back of Blackwood’s tee shirt out of his belt, then slips his hands up between soft cotton and softer skin. He hooks his wrists, sliding his hands forwards around Blackwood’s sides and then up over his chest, the tee shirt pulling free at the front too.

John bundles the thin cotton higher, baring plush pale skin and a smooth pelt of dark hair over Blackwood’s breastbone. John slithers down the wall a bit and dips his head, bringing his lips to Blackwood’s ribs and then smearing them higher onto his chest. Blackwood grunts as John mouths at one nipple, and then hisses his breath in slowly as John strums the tip of tongue across the firming peak. John thumbs at Blackwood’s other nipple, and then at both as he lifts his face again, his lips curling back from his teeth in a soft snarl.

“Oh – fucking hell,” Blackwood murmurs.

“Take this off,” John says, pulling at Blackwood’s tee shirt.

Blackwood rocks back onto his knees and strips his tee shirt off over his head. His tags catch on the cotton, lift, and drop back to his chest with a slight clink. He leans forwards again, but John surges up to meet him, catching him by the arms and flipping him down onto his back on the sleeping bag. Blackwood huffs his breath out in amusement, but it quickly turns to heavy-eyed pleasure when John bends down over him and kisses deliberately beneath his ear and then down the side of his neck. John’s hand shapes the curves and hollows of Blackwood’s shoulders and slides down to his chest. John shifts lower, his hands smoothing down Blackwood’s belly while he catches one nipple between his lips. Blackwood slips both hands down the back of John’s tee shirt and rakes his fingertips slowly up from between John’s shoulder blades to the nape of his neck.

John rolls onto one elbow and uses his free hand to pluck Blackwood’s fly buttons open. Blackwood blows his breath out noisily, and rocks from one hip to the other so that John can strip his camouflage pants down onto his thighs. John hooks the top edge of Blackwood’s underwear out; Blackwood scoops a hand into his groin and draws his cock up as John pulls his underwear down.

“Oh that’s gorgeous,” John says, skimming the light curve of his thumb and forefinger up Blackwood’s shaft.

Blackwood’s cock isn’t long but it’s unusually thick, with heavily corded veins running under plush dark skin. John dips his head, licks messily up its length, and swirls his tongue into the ruffled opening of the foreskin.

“Oh, bloody hell,” Blackwood says shakily.

John spits a loose blob of saliva into the tip of Blackwood’s cock and uses his thumb to smear it over the little curve of glans that’s exposed by his foreskin. John circles and strokes with his thumb while he licks roughly across and up the length of Blackwood’s shaft.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Blackwood says, writhing under the press of John’s torso.

“Too much?” John asks breathlessly.

“No just – fucking unexpected,” Blackwood says. “You don’t seem the type.”

“I’m thirty-four, childless, and I’ve never been married,” John protests. “You do not get to be the one who’s the most surprised here.”

Blackwood laughs, but then the sound slurs into a deep groan as John dips even lower, licks the slack weight of Blackwood’s scrotum and sucks one ball into his mouth.

“Oh – fuck,” Blackwood gasps.

John hums and huffs appreciatively, and the vibrations make Blackwood arch his spine and rock his weight from side to side under John. John spits that ball out and takes the other one up, while his fingers and thumb sleek up and down Blackwood’s shaft and slide his foreskin up and down on his glans.

“Oh fuck, John,” Blackwood says blurrily.

John pulls back for a second and works Blackwood’s pants farther down. He bends again, nosing in under Blackwood’s scrotum and flicking his tongue over the plump curve of his perineum. Blackwood braces his heel against the floor and lifts himself against John’s mouth.

“Can I stick my fingers in you?” John asks, his voice raw with arousal.

“Oh fucking hell,” Blackwood says loudly. “Yeah.”

John’s breath comes out hard. He works a mouthful of saliva, spits down onto the fingertips of his index and middle fingers, and slides his fingers back along the heated, humid cleft of Blackwood’s behind. Blackwood draws his knees up as far as he can before the crotch of his pants – drawn taut between his thighs – binds against John’s forearm. John spits onto his fingers a second time, then drags his mouth up along Blackwood’s shaft as he jiggles his fingertips gently against Blackwood’s anus. Blackwood hisses, and John presses his fingers presses in to the second knuckle and then pulls out again right away. Blackwood growls, a deep rumble in his chest. John presses in again, pauses to pulse the curl of his fingers slightly, and pulls out again. Blackwood is panting, his hands pulling rather erratically at John’s shoulders and arms.

“Don’t – fuck,” Blackwood says, rolling his head from side to side on the sleeping bag. “Just - ”

John pushes in sharply, flexing his fingers straight until the rim of Blackwood’s anus is pressed into the webbing where John’s middle and ring fingers meet. Blackwood’s head lurches up from the floor; he groans deeply and his cock flexes up from his belly.

“Oh fucking – yeah,” he says as John slides his fingers halfway out and then thrusts smoothly in again.

John brings his face to Blackwood’s again, leaning over his open mouth.

“Can I fuck you?” John breathes. “Do you like that? Do you like a cock in there?”

Blackwood arches under him, groans aloud, and John catches his breath.

“Slow down,” Blackwood says, bringing one hand up between them and pushing at John’s chest.

“Shit, sorry,” John says, his eyelids fluttering shut. “I - ”

“I don’t mean - ” Blackwood smirks. “I mean – let me take a turn.”

John’s eyes flick open again. He lets Blackwood push him off and over onto his back. Blackwood swings a knee over John’s thighs and sits down straddling him. John lifts his chin, drawing his throat taut, as Blackwood tugs the hem of John’s tee shirt of his camouflage pants and pushes it up on his chest. Blackwood spreads both hands over the hard planes of John’s belly, and then flicks his fingers on the folds of tee shirt.

“Take it off,” he says.

John rolls his head and shoulders up, swoops his hands behind his head and drags the tee shirt off. He pitches it aside and lies back, his tags spilling down the side of his neck to pool on the sleeping bag below. Blackwood plucks John’s fly buttons open. He shifts farther down on John’s legs; John lifts his hips, and Blackwood tugs his pants down off his hips. John’s erection is stretching the upper edge of his underwear away from his belly. Blackwood rubs his palm over the bulge, but John turns his head restlessly and hooks his thumbs into his underwear, pushing it down from under Blackwood’s hand. John’s cock springs upwards, lying straight along his belly. He’s large, with smooth creamy skin and a long foreskin that’s still almost completely covering a deeply flushed glans.

“Oh fuck, that’s pretty,” Blackwood says, drawing his thumb slowly down John’s frenulum.

John chews his lower lip deliberately. Blackwood works his grip slowly along John’s shaft, squeezing and then shifting his hand up a little and squeezing again. By the time he’s reaches the top, he’s milked a fat drop of precum out of the slit of John’s glans. He thumbs the clear fluid over the tip of John’s cock and around the rim of his foreskin. John writhes under him, his breathing turning ragged.

Blackwood shifts his grip to root of John’s cock and begins to work slowly upwards again. He bends his head lower and starts to lick wetly over John’s shaft behind his hand. John moans softly and puts one hand on Blackwood’s head.

“Oh Christ that’s – that’s nice,” John sighs heavily.

Blackwood circles his thumb, spreading fluid over the outside of John’s foreskin. When he shifts his grip downwards again, John arches strenuously under him.

“Oh – fuck,” John sighs. “That’s - ”

Blackwood uses his mouth on John’s shaft again, spreading saliva messily over the skin. John manages to draw his chin down enough to frown at him.

“You’re – are you - ?” he falters.

Blackwood glances down at the dribble of precum oozing from John’s slit.

“Doing it with just spit and precum,” he says, glancing up at John from under an arched eyebrow. “That’s just – that’s the dirtiest fucking thing I can think of.”

“Oh, Christ,” John huffs, grasping two handfuls of the sleeping bag beneath him. “Yes, yes it is.”

“Come on, let’s try this,” Blackwood says. “Spit on me a couple more times and we should be good to go.”

“How do you want to do it?” John says shakily.

Blackwood twists away and pushes up onto his hands and knees, his thighs splayed wide enough to part the cleft of his behind. John huffs out a sound of helpless arousal. He sits up, turns over, and shifts close behind, both hands pulling slowly down the heavy curves of Blackwood’s sides and then over the rounds of his buttocks. John dips his head and spits against the pink ring of Blackwood’s anus. Blackwood jerks forwards slightly and then rocks back. John spits again and uses the ball of his thumb to gather the wetness and tuck it into the opening of Blackwood’s body.

“Fuck me,” Blackwood murmurs, “fuck me, just _fuck me_ … ”

John grins breathlessly. He moves in closer, his knees nudging at the insides of Blackwood’s knees, and takes hold of his shaft.

“You ready?” he asks, the tip of his cock just touching Blackwood’s anus.

Blackwood nods. John starts to lean in. Blackwood exhales deliberately and John sees the rim of muscle soften and open slightly. He pushes forwards more insistently, and Blackwood’s body opens and John’s cock pierces it.

“Oh fuck – oh yes,” John gasps as his foreskin is wrung back and his glans dips into Blackwood’s body. “Is that okay? Tell me if it’s not okay.”

“It’s okay,” Blackwood growls. “Come on, all the way.”

John groans as he pushes farther forwards, and then the sound smears out into a shaking sigh. Blackwood drops his head, letting it hang loosely, and fists both hands.

“Ah – Jesus,” he says.

John opens his mouth, but he can’t even organize his breath into inhalations and exhalations, let alone arrange it into words. For a long beat they’re just gasping together, their bodies straining and then slackening without actual movement. At last Blackwood’s able to nod messily.

“Now – move,” he grunts.

John’s spine flexes, drawing his hips slowly back and then rolling them forwards. They both groan loudly as John moves his hips again, and again.

“Oh God,” John says, “oh Christ, oh good, oh fuck … ”

Blackwood makes a blurry sound of agreement.

“Okay, good, this is good,” John says, his movements becoming more fluent.

Blackwood blows his breath out noisily. He reaches back, catches John’s wrist, and draws his hand forwards.

“Oh yeah,” John says, taking hold of Blackwood’s cock. “Oh nice – oh that’s nice.”

Blackwood’s breathing turns harsher as John’s starts to stroke him, slow strong pulls in concert with the movement of his hips.

“Yeah, oh fuck yeah,” Blackwood mutters. “That’s right.”

John sinks his teeth into the thick muscle of Blackwood’s back, yielding the whole weight of his torso to Blackwood’s support.

“Oh fuck yeah,” Blackwood says. “Come on, give it some fucking boot, John.”

John lifts again, freeing himself to thrust more sharply. His hips snap, and there’s the obscene sound of flesh slapping on flesh.

“Yeah, come on, fucking hard,” Blackwood says.

John tightens his grip around the top of Blackwood’s cock and shoves his cock into him with a wicked hook of his hips.

“Oh that’s bloody brilliant,” Blackwood grinds, bearing back against John’s thrusts.

John’s grimacing, mouth gaping and eyes squeezed shut. He pumps the circle of his forefinger and thumb rapidly over Blackwood’s glans and foreskin, the contact slippery smooth with precum, and rolls his hips hard against Blackwood’s behind.

“Oh Christ, John,” Blackwood groans. “I’m going to come.”

John stops for a second, gathering Blackwood’s foreskin around his glans and stilling his hips while he pats his other hand over the sleeping bag and picks up Blackwood’s bandanna.

“Here,” John says.

Blackwood takes it from him, nodding. John starts to move again, reestablishing their quick hard rhythm almost at once.

“Oh, fucking hell yes,” Blackwood groans.

“Do it, fucking do it,” John urges.

Blackwood groans again, louder, rolling his forehead against his own arm. His body strains, the heavy muscles bowing at his thighs and flanks and shoulders.

“Oh – fuck,” he gasps, his spine arching and his body quivering violently.

“Oh – oh – oh fucking yes,” John hisses, “oh you - ”

He bites down hard on his lip, his face contorting and then abruptly smoothing again as his breath shatters and then falls into soft, huffing sighs.

Blackwood loses the lock on his arms and folds down onto his elbows. John draws his hips back, and both of them gasp as his cock comes free from Blackwood’s body. Blackwood sinks down onto his chest and straightens his legs out. John slides aside, resting on his hip and elbow beside him.

“Bloody hell,” Blackwood says.

“Yeah,” John says.

“That was - ”

“Yeah.”

Blackwood wipes his hand across his mouth and then swipes it over his scalp. He drops his forehead onto his forearm and his shoulders begin to shake.

“What?” John smirks.

“You bloody tosser,” Blackwood laughs, lifting his head again. “You get to sleep it off now, but I have to go out there and act like my arse isn’t throbbing.”

John sniggers. Blackwood shoves him in the shoulder, but John just curls closer and draws his knees up against the backs of Blackwood’s legs.

“Next time we’ll do it when you’ve just come in,” John says.

“Too right,” Blackwood says.

He pushes up again, groaning as he sways back onto his knees. He picks up the bandanna, rearranges it to expose a clean section of cloth, and wipes around the head of his cock. He drops the bandanna again and unfolds onto his feet. He hitches his underwear and pants up to his hips, then flexes his arms above his head, hands clasping the opposing elbows, and strains. John rolls onto his back in the vacated space on the sleeping bag, his mouth curling crookedly as he surveys the broad highs and hollows of Blackwood’s body. Blackwood takes a wipe from the package lying on the floor, swipes his armpits and then up the cleft of his behind, and bins the wipe in a plastic bag hanging from a nail in the wall. He pulls his underwear and pants up the rest of the way and starts to button his fly.

“Oi, don’t go to sleep like that,” he says, seeing John still stretched on his back. “You’ll look a right fool when the AQ drop a rocket on you and you run out with your trousers round your knees.”

John groans plaintively but plucks his bandanna from one of his pants pockets, wipes himself, then struggles his underwear and pants back up and buttons his fly. Blackwood throws John’s tee shirt and camouflage shirt at him while picking his own up from the floor. John sits up to pull them on.

“Watch out for the southern side of Um Majir,” he says, as Blackwood stamps his feet into his boots. “They’re clearing that wall that came down and the lorries keep blocking the road.”

“Got it,” Blackwood says, swinging his body armor on.

“And make sure Vickers checks the mission maps against the OC’s ones, because ours were completely wrong.”

“Are you my boyfriend or my bloody mother?” Blackwood says.

John clasps his hand over his eyes and grimaces.

“See you later,” Blackwood grins, dropping his hand to John’s shoulder.

“Fuck off out of it,” John says, squeezing Blackwood’s wrist briefly.

“Yeah, you too,” Blackwood says, picking up the rest of his gear.

He brushes out through the curtained doorway. John lies down again, crossing his ankles and shifting his shoulders until he’s comfortable, and closes his eyes.


End file.
